She moved her gaze along the southeastern coast and reached for a biscuit. “Firth of Clyde,” she repeated. Loch after loch passed beneath her gaze, and she grew frustrated as her eye traveled up the full length of the east coast and along the north. Then she found it. “Dornoth Firth!” she exclaimed. And there was Tain, south of the channel.
Phoebe searched far to the south. She groped for the tea cup and, finding it, lifted it to her lips. She followed the clan names down the map; Menzies, Campbell, Macnab, MacGregor. She took another sip of tea and calculated the ride to be two days. Longer than she'd hoped, which gave her concern over traveling the mountainous terrain alone. She would have to hire an escort for at least part of the way, and a quick look told her Perth was a large enough city to procure a reputable escort. If she left her escort in Inverness, the trip from there to Tain was only a few hours.
She glanced at the clock on the desk. Eleven thirty. Late in the day to begin such a journey, but should she wait, her new relatives would likely descend upon her. She lifted the lid that covered the plate on her tray. Cold chicken, just as she’d requested. Perfect for a long trip and, as expected, enough for three meals. Phoebe couldn’t help a smile. Winnie was a good soul.
Within twenty minutes, Phoebe had retrieved the tower percussion pistol she'd hidden in her trunk, and had bundled the remaining food, then hid each in the pockets of her dress. After another quick study of the map, she completed her ensemble with a voluminous cloak. Phoebe took a deep breath and opened the door. Through the winding corridors of Brahan Seer, she headed for the seldom traveled front entrance. There, she slipped out and strolled across the courtyard, praying none of her new relatives would appear.
As she had done the last time she’d been at Brahan Seer, Phoebe walked down the hill, but skirted the fringes of the village. Winnie said the duke was in the village, and Phoebe held her breath until she reached the stables and found them unattended. She located blanket, saddle and tack, and within fifteen minutes, had saddled a gelding. Phoebe stopped even as she lifted a booted foot into the stirrup. Her husband was gone, he wouldn't miss her, but the duke and duchess were sure to sound the alarm upon discovering her absence.
Phoebe looked down the length of the stables. Opposite the stalls was a door, slightly ajar. She hurried to the tack room and slowly pushed the door open. As hoped, the stable master’s office. Inside she found a quill. Notes, bills and miscellaneous papers were stacked in two neat piles on the left side of the desk. Phoebe rifled through the papers until she found one that was blank on the bottom half. She creased the paper, placed the crease on the edge of the desk, and neatly tore the empty half from the rest of the sheet.
She sat at the desk’s chair and scribbled a note.
Elise,
Forgive my leaving like this, but I know you and the duke will not agree to let me go. I believe you will understand that I can't let Adam’s killer go unpunished. I am returning to London to deal with the matter myself. I believe that the longer I wait, the harder it will be to catch the murderer.
My marriage to Lord Ashlund will give me immunity against any allegations, so please rest easy in my safety. I will send word as soon as I arrive to Shyerton Hall.
Yours,
Phoebe
She folded the note and wrote the duchess’ name on the outside then leaned it against the ink well and quit the modest office.
That special sense that John Stafford wrote of, that sense that every investigator must have to survive, had roared to life in Phoebe, and she knew that the trail to her father—to her husband—were somehow connected. Thanks to John Stafford, she also knew that trail began with Lord Alistair Redgrave in Tain, Scotland.
“How does your future husband feel about your quest?” Adam had asked the night he was murdered.
Phoebe planned to find the answer to that question.
*****
Phoebe caught sight of the tiny Achilty Inn up ahead. A shopkeeper in Orrin had recommended the inn as the last one until Tain. She had left behind in Inverness the two men she'd hired on the recommendation of the minister at St. Paul's church in Perth. This, she had reasoned, was a safer course of action than taking a recommendation from the local magistrate, who was far more likely to be just the person the duke would contact if he was on her trail. Tain was but three or four hours away. An easy ride, but her horse was fagged and it was nearly ten at night.
Obtaining lodgings proved easy. Highlanders, Phoebe reflected, were a friendly lot. She recalled the night Kiernan had been shot, and the English innkeeper’s wife when they sought lodging. Phoebe received no such shabby treatment from the Scottish innkeeper's wife, who now bustled her up to a room.
“Ye look fair starved,” the woman said, glancing over her shoulder at Phoebe as she opened the door to a room.
Phoebe followed her into the modest room.